Dominique
by Harriet Hopkirk
Summary: Lorcan is dying, and with the mysterious return of his brother, Dominique Weasley is torn. Ridden with guilt and fear, her perfect life is crumbling around her as she is approached by a shady organisation. She has to make a choice, not just between the two men, but between the light and the darkness.
1. At A Loss

There is a certain process that must be followed, to emerge from the blackness that comes after a world ends. It takes a sudden assault to the senses, and a slight movement to remind the brain that it is housed in a body - that there is something there to control and drive. Next, the muffled sound of conversation reaches the ears, but it is not possible to understand the content.

"You've heard?"

"I know, I can't believe it... I was going to be on shift with him tomorrow."

"You know... you know what they would have done to get him to bleed like that?"

"I don't want to know."

"He was probably still alive when they..."

My eyes saw nothing except for visions of human disfigurement. It seemed that everywhere I turned there was another example of a human being impacted upon by one of man's own creations. A girl was wheeled in with horrible burns. More than one violent accident came through the doors. And there was even an old man who seemed to have mistakenly severed his finger.

I remembered finding him, shattered and twisted and bleeding profusely, his breathing ragged. The open window. The broken furniture. His office, usually so light and comfortable, had been dark and dingy, his wrecked possessions and splintered wood and glass littering the floor. And the blood. _"You know what they would have done to get him to bleed like that?"_

I moved my head slowly to face the people standing in the cavernous white room: healers, relatives, people waiting. A family in the corner stood up hastily when a healer approached them, lowering his facemask and shaking his head sadly. That family might be us in an hour or so. And I watched their reactions, trying to acknowledge the correct way to respond to these things - they were crying, one was on his knees, another still and silent.

It didn't help. I had succumbed to this horrible numbness, and I had blended into the blank white walls: undefined and bland, cold and uncaring. If I had made the mistake of looking into a mirror, the paleness of my skin would have complemented the shade.

They had sat there for hours, in a cold and drab waiting room, watching healers go in and out with various potions and machines. I had loitered outside in the corridor - snapping at my cousins and my friends, too annoyed by the sympathetic looks and encouraging smiles. The words that had been used by the healers in the snatches of conversation that I had greedily overhead in the waiting room had shifted from my ears and settled in my stomach like lead: _a very small chance, he may pull through, he may fight it._

We were expecting for something to happen, for someone to tell us it would all be all right. None of us dared to think of what would happen if it wasn't.

* * *

"Miss Weasley? We need to talk to you... about Lorcan. About what happened tonight?"

This was just another example of the fragility of the human body. It had been short-sighted of me not to consider that the person I saw every day, talked to everyday, kissed and hugged and slept with, could so easily be damaged by the outside world and by the actions of others. I should have insisted he wore some sort of protective armour, and he would not have been taken from me so quickly.

From the moment that you allowed yourself to feel these feelings, you began the countdown to the day when the loved one would no longer be around.

"Would you like some coffee? Water? Something to eat?"

The coffee was cold and disgusting, but I drank it anyway. I was starving, but I was too nervous to eat anything, or even ask. Instead I looked at all the paintings of famous healers snoozing in their frames. He was supposed to be one of them; _his_ portrait should have been hanging here. His wide blue eyes and brown hair, so much like his twin brother's, should have been painted and hung on the wall with the others.

The white wall, white skin, deathly pale. Death on a pale horse.

"Miss Weasley, it's imperative that we talk to you."

I was so tired.

"Would you like anything else?"

I shook my head.

"Then I need you to speak to me. I know it's difficult, I know you've been through a lot, but the faster we get this done, the faster you can go home."

The Aurors came just after he was taken to hospital, and I endured several minutes of uninterrupted, pressurised questioning. Now they had sat me down at a table, they had notes and files and long, black cloaks. Official looking documents with stamps and signatures - even pictures of Lorcan, fingerprints...

"Perhaps it would be better if I talked on her behalf? She is obviously still in shock."

Rose entered with a flurry of red curls and soft fragrance. How come she could still look so perfect under the harsh lights and the horrible circumstances - she was one of those miraculous people where her skin was still pale and porcelain and beautiful when she cried, not red and blotchy. As she spoke, a single tear fell from her eye and dropped onto the table. Perfect.

"Thank you, Miss Weasley. That would be helpful."

"What would you like to know?"

I needed fresh air, or some water - but my mouth was too parched to say anything. I gawked ungainly at Rose as she gesticulated and retold the story. The man sitting opposite was writing things down, dotting i's and crossing t's with such ferocity it was as if the parchment had murdered Lorcan.

He was going to take me to a ball, a sponsor event for St Mungo's, to celebrate our four-year anniversary. I hated those events, trapped inside some horrible dress while I had to make conversation with horrible people. He had always made it fun, though. He had always made me laugh.

I laughed.

Rose turned to face me, scandalized. Her hands automatically found mine, and I watched as Lorcan's dried blood was transferred from my hands to hers. I felt her shudder, and another tear fell. She didn't need that. She didn't want that.

It was too hot in the room, and my throat was dry, but I kept laughing. The Aurors were staring; they didn't know what to do.

How I wanted this to simply be another of Albus' pranks, for Lorcan - fully alive and healthy - to jump out from behind a door and surprise me. I smiled bravely at the thought. Rose looked around at the Aurors, and I saw the pain in her face. Her blue eyes, usually so bright and full of energy, were dead and dark.

"Could you get her some water please?"

I stood up to accept it. It felt like my throat had now closed, and the laugh had diminished to a hoarse chuckle. He would soon be gone, he wouldn't fight, he would die and I would be left all alone. The healers had said there was a small chance of him surviving... but it was miniscule.

My body seemed to react to the loss, my legs collapsing beneath me. I was sure I would hit the floor, but I was caught. I felt familiar arms surround me as I blacked out.

* * *

The sheets were soft, but pulled so tightly across my chest that I could barely breathe. I stared stupidly around the room, but only saw rows and rows of other beds that seemed orange in the light from the street lamps outside. Someone was snoring.

The door opened and I fell back on the pillows and closed my eyes. It was someone in the lime green robes of a healer, and they walked purposefully towards the end of my bed. They picked up my file, and flicked through it before moving towards me. They pressed a hand to my forehead.

I opened my eyes, just a fraction. I didn't want to talk to more people about what had happened... I didn't want to wake up and find that Lorcan had died when I was asleep. But the man sitting beside me - he had brown hair, blue eyes, the same strong, handsome face. He was my Lorcan.

Relief flooded through me - he was back here, with me, alive and healthy! Lorcan was sitting on the edge of my bed, my hand clasped in his. He was here. My breathing sped up considerably, and I ripped the sheets away from me in an effort to be closer to him. I threw my arms around his chest, and let my fingers travel through his soft hair. I kissed him briefly on the cheek before burying my face into his shoulder.

"You're here," I said. "You're with me."

"Where else would I be?"

I pulled away. There was something wrong. The accent was different... there was just a hint of lilt, something Irish. And as our faces were so close, I could spot the similarities and the differences - the new scars that littered his face, the stupidly sarcastic smirk that had plagued my childhood and days at Hogwarts. Just a case of mistaken identity... it had happened often enough.

"Lysander."

"As you live and breathe."

I didn't speak... I couldn't. I had thought that Lysander was Lorcan. I had hugged and kissed him like he was _my_ Lorcan, given him the welcome that he wanted rather than the cold shoulder and sniping comments that I had practiced, should Lysander had ever returned.

But here he was. And we were both stranded in the middle of a hospital room, surrounded by the sleeping. A single strand of orange light sliced through the window and illuminated his face. His brown hair was ruffled and messy, and there were massive bags underneath his blue eyes. His clothes were ripped and torn beneath the healer's coat he must have pinched from someone.

Lysander was the splitting image of his brother, but he was much more rundown and neglected than I remembered him. Lysander had been gone for a long time now and, though they looked the same, I had to remind myself how different they were.

"And the prodigal son returns! Did you miss me?"

I sank back into the pillows, trying to disguise the true answer to the question. Of course I had missed him - but that didn't mean I wasn't angry with him for disappearing. He had abandoned me, betrayed me, in a way. He had been my friend and he was meant to be there for me. And he had just left. It must have been so much worse for Lorcan.

"I came as soon as I heard," he said, but he sounded too impassive.

"I'm so sorry, Dom."

"He's your brother."

"We weren't close, you know that."

"You hate him."

"And he hated me, but I'm still here."

And he kept talking about Lorcan in the past tense.

It was definitely strange, this whole situation. Lorcan was lying somewhere, being cut up and probed and sewn back together by the healers he saw and worked with everyday. My family and friends were elsewhere; lodged in that cold, drab waiting room, desperate for news. And I was in this room with Lysander and a headache that threatened to consume my whole body.

"Where have you been?"

"Everywhere. I was in Germany when I got the letter about Lorcan."  
"And what were you doing there?"

"Sightseeing, eating sauerkraut, you know the drill."

I wanted to go back to sleep, or for someone else to wake up or walk through the door, just so I could escape from this strange whispered conversation with a man I no longer had anything in common with.

We had been friends at Hogwarts; it had been Lysander, Scorpius, Rose and I in a tight little group that sometimes allowed Lorcan to join its ranks, much to Lysander's chagrin. We had always discussed daring trips in the Forbidden Forest while the others had begged for us to just return to the castle, to do our homework. In some ways, Lysander and I had been necessary counterbalances to Scorpius and Rose: the wild and crazy side to challenge the more conservative.

He had never really grown out of it, and so after years at working at some dead-end job, he had upped and left, deciding that travelling the world would be better than settling down. He had asked me to come with him, but I had refused.

"You could have come with me. Seen the world," he continued.

"I had better things to do."

"Of course," he replied, laughing softly. "Did you ever tell him? About me asking you?"

I shook my head. Once or twice, I had imagined Lysander off gallivanting somewhere, when I was bored at home, or the Wireless was playing Celestina, or when Lorcan was berating his brother for leaving his job and going around the world... but it was different. I had pictured him in sunglasses and Hawaiian shirts and socks and sandals, taking pictures of famous landmarks. Not this - not a Lysander with scars and tired eyes.

Never, not even once, had I pictured myself at his side, or taking his photo outside some temple. Not until now, and the thought racked me with guilt.

"Ah well," Lysander sighed. "It's not like you can tell him now."

I stared at him, rigid in my bed.

"Merlin, Dom! You're not as feisty as I remember."

I opened my mouth to shout at him - but I wasn't sure whether I was angry at him or not, or whether it was some guilt that had taken over me and made sure I found someone else to blame, because Merlin forbid I couldn't be the cause of it.

Lysander could have been easily saying that I couldn't tell Lorcan _now_ - because he was in surgery and I was locked in this room with him. Lysander smiled again.

"You're his brother," I croaked.

"And you're his girlfriend. Shouldn't you be weeping by his bedside?"  
Another retort perched on the tip of my tongue, and then disappeared. I gawked at him, struggling to find the words - I had played the weeping girlfriend... hadn't I? I had found his body and I had rushed him to the hospital, I had fainted, I had asked breathlessly for a glass of water...

I hadn't cried yet, though - due to the shock, of course.

"Just because I gave up on you doesn't mean I'm going to do the same to him," I said calmly.

Lysander turned quickly to face me. I knew my words had hurt him. However much I had missed him, the fact that I had caused him pain gave me some sort of excruciating pleasure. He deserved to know how it felt. Silence spread between the both of us, and we could hear the breath of the other patients, sleeping peacefully in their beds. I waited for a witty response or the typical Lysander smirk. Nothing came. He just stared at me.

"You don't know..."

But then the door opened, and another healer stood in the doorway. Lysander automatically stood up and reached for my file, and flicked through it aimlessly. He continued to gaze down at me, an amused smirk playing on his lips as he watched me. His cold blue eyes bored into mine, and for the second time in about ten seconds I was startled by the severity of his gaze. But this time, I knew I wouldn't give in. I couldn't.

I closed my eyes. I couldn't shout at him, or hit him, or tell him to get out. The sleeping patients all around me, the healer at the door, made that impossible - and he knew it. I breathed slowly in and out... perhaps he would finally relent, and go see his brother, or his family.

"Excuse me?" The other healer was speaking. I heard Lysander put down the file and walk to the end of my bed.

"Yes?"

"Is Dominique Weasley in this room?"

"I was just checking up on her. Is there something I should know?"

"Something about Lorcan Scamander? I don't know - Healer Berridge was in a rush."

"I'll wake her now."

The door closed and I was already sitting on the edge of my bed, my head spinning from the effort. I slipped my feet into my shoes - heels, stupidly, and I was still wearing the gown from the St. Mungo's gala - and stood. Lysander just stayed at the end of my bed, idly tapping the file on the metal frame. The sound threatened to wake the patients up.

"Lysander..."  
"You gave up on me?" His voice wasn't smug, or pleased or amused. It was just quiet, and I heard the sorrow in it. He gave a dark and appraising look, a shaft of orange light cutting across his face - it was a look that predicted disappointment; it was a look that stayed with me.

And suddenly, all the pleasure and satisfaction I got from hurting him was gone, replaced with an overwhelming sense of pity that was there for a moment, before the strange mixture of stoicism and shock settled in again.

"I didn't want you to come back," I lied, "I didn't need you."

And I left him inside that room, in the dark, wearing the coat he had stolen and the scars he had somehow procured. A whole plague of memories - good and bad - had begun replaying in my mind and I struggled to control them. I cringed at my apparent aloofness, the coldness that had seemed to colour that encounter. I should have been nicer to him. I shouldn't have pretended to care less than I did.

But Lorcan was more important, and I couldn't leave him.

* * *

I remembered the few times I brought up the idea of death with Lorcan. It had been a silly resentment, really – some stupid comment about funeral arrangements and whom Victoire would fuss over if I died - but he bitterly hated any reference to the idea that we might be mortal, like any other person on earth. The very notion that death would one day take the both of us was distasteful to him, and that I had been able to make light of it seemed like an insult. And Lorcan could never abide an insult.

The corridors were blindingly bright and white, compared to the dark of the room where I had slept. People were still busy, bustling around me, but I didn't notice, because none of it really mattered. I could have been walking on another planet, surrounded by life forms I didn't recognize as sentient, for all the interest I showed. I needed to be there. Whatever was going on, I needed to be there.

But, apparently... apparently I was too late, and he was gone.

The collection of friends and relatives were still in the waiting room, dotted around the room in various states of despair. Rose and Scorpius stood up to greet me as I entered - Rose still looking prim and proper, Scorpius steely-faced - and I tried, I really tried, to hear their words of encouragement, to feel the warmth that should have emanated from their hugs.

"It'll be all right. We'll help you through this, I promise."

I settled my blank eyes on the both of them. I just wanted to be alone. I didn't want any of them to be here. But here they were: family. Connected in some way, forever. I shook my head, mutely, unable to find the words. Rose seemed to realize her mistake in telling me these things. Another soft touch on my arm.

"Dom, it's going to be - "

We might have well have been strangers.

I was cold, and tired, and pale. And I hadn't cried yet.

It was hard to believe that I had been in the same building when it happened. I had stopped in the hospital's reception to talk to an old friend from Hogwarts - they had commented on my dress, wished me luck, hoped I had a wonderful evening. I would have liked to have a premonition. At the very least, this event that erased Lorcan from the face of the earth could have been foreshadowed in some way. I could have been there with him. I could have stopped it.

Wordlessly, I slid down the wall, landing on the ground without thought of my expensive dress. I noticed Rose and Scorpius exchanging irritatingly private looks. They were worried about me, I realized with little emotion. They were wondering what I might do.

A shadow fell across me, and I heard the collective gasp of my family. They didn't know he was back. Lysander's face – not sentimental, but rallying, expecting more from me, not allowing me to either shy away from the truth, or bow down to it in acquiescence – appeared as he knelt down in front of me, our eyes meeting.

He opened his mouth to speak, and when he did, he no longer had his Irish accent. His hair was swept back off his face, his skin free of scars, his eyes bright and alive. I closed my eyes. I smiled as the first tears began rolling down my cheeks.

"It'll be all right, Dom. It'll all be fine."


	2. Dreams and Conciousness

_There was no one around. Her heels echoed loudly in the corridor and her long gown swished on the white marble flooring. The occasional patient or healer walked passed, muttering a greeting or flashing a friendly smile. She walked quickly and her heart fluttered nervously. Tonight was their anniversary; she was excited and had heard whispers of engagement from her friends and cousins. A smile graced her features as she mumbled an apology to a dark stranger who she had knocked into, but her mood was so carefree that she ignored his grumpy retort. Her insides still dancing, she reached out her hand and opened the office door._

_ At first, she thought that he was sleeping. He looked so peaceful, lying there with his eyes closed. She could hear his ragged breathing. Hers stopped when she saw the extent of his injuries and the destruction before her. She dropped to his side, cradling his head in her lap. His face was ghostly white and it contrasted terribly with the dark red surrounding him. Tears came thick and fast and her shaking hands gingerly pushed his hair away from his forehead, and away from the deep wound above his right eye. She screamed for help, the blood seeping into her dress and her hands covered in the sticky, crimson liquid._

_ She checked for his pulse. It was still there, and although it was faint, it was there and she took a small comfort in that. She clasped desperately at his neck, thinking that if she didn't feel the pulse, that it would go away forever and he would be lost. People entered and shouted orders but she didn't hear them. She clung to his broken body and she would never let go._

_"Do you know what happened?"_

_ She felt her grip loosen._

_"Do you know what happened?"_

_ Her vision went black._

_"Do you know..."_

The transition from unconsciousness to wakefulness came easily, without any resistance. I had never been visited by quite such a vivid dream. In some ways, it seemed more real than the sight that met me now - my room, dark and gloomy. But the details were already drifting away, and soon I wouldn't be able to recall parts of it, instead making up faces and places - eventually I wouldn't remember any of it, and it would become a complete fabrication of the real thing.

I got up, and switched the wireless on. Again, the strange numbness was still unyielding - but this time it was obscured by the lingering mournfulness of the dream. I couldn't go back to sleep - instead I sat there for hours, the black sky turning from purple to red and then to orange. For the first time in years, I watched the sun rise.

I tore my eyes away from the window and looked across the dark room. His things were still scattered across the floor, across the desk, and they were taunting me. I wanted to throw it all away, to remove all memory of him from my mind, so that the grief wasn't so impenetrable. But I couldn't. Instead I rose shakily from my bed, and walked towards the dresser. Handling his letters delicately, I ran my fingers over the neat writing. Lorcan's Quidditch jumper hung on the back of the chair, and I picked it up, running my thumb over the soft fabric. I slipped it on over my pyjamas and his smell engulfed me, comforting me.

The vague line between consciousness and sleep was blurred, and the memory plays tricks on a tired, exhausted brain. I found myself trying to remember moments from when he was alive, or when Lorcan and I first met, or lessons at Hogwarts. My waking mind did not remember the substance of them, only the vague sense of loss that accompanies random flashes of a lost memory, but asleep, I revelled in them. I could remember every detail. It was as if real life and dreaming had become inverted.

But, the images stayed with me - they haunted me and I wondered if I was being punished. If it was punishment, it was the most exquisite form of cruelty; the scenes are too breathtakingly beautiful and alien to be real. I closed my eyes, and found myself with him.

* * *

Another sensation awakened with me: pain. My head was throbbing - the pain radiated from the top of my temple, right down to my neck and shoulders. There was still a hint of grey about the corners of my vision; my eyes were still half closed - as they are when you are jerked from the depths of unconsciousness by the opening and shutting of a door.

"And she hasn't woken up yet?"

Someone was perching on the edge of my bed, pressing a cool hand to my forehead. They obviously thought I was still asleep, and I so pressed my eyes shut again. It was Victoire - her light, twinkling tones were unmistakable - and I could imagine her, dressed up and exquisite, leaning over my bed. Her face would be a perfect picture of sympathy.

"Has she eaten?" And Maman was here as well. She would be standing by the door, clutching her handbag, while her elder daughter fretted and fussed around me. No doubt several dishes of bouillabaisse and tartiflette would appear magically in my refrigerator and the flat would be clean and sparkling by the time I got up.

"No."  
And there he was - that Irish voice that I kept imagining at Lorcan's. I briefly remembered last night: the hospital, the Aurors, Lysander. He had carried me up the stairs. He had looked after me.

"Did you see the article? About Lorcan?"

"It was nice, I suppose."

"Are you sure you're all right about staying here? I did offer, but I…"

"It's fine."

I was already falling back to sleep. I could smell Victoire's perfume and Maman was muttering in French.

"We'll come back tomorrow, then."

"I'll be gone by then."

* * *

"Tea?"

Gold and glittering lights, that's all I could remember of the dream I was having before consciousness rudely stole me from it. There was a lot of people… some sort of party, or a wedding perhaps, and they were smiling and dancing and laughing. The air was filled with it.

The room I was in now hardly compared to it.

Lysander Scamander was sitting in the armchair opposite me, holding two mugs of tea. His stubble, the terrible bags under his eyes and the scars on his face seemed more pronounced in the cold daylight. I saw him take in my appearance, his eyes lingering on the Quidditch jumper.

Lysander had been tottering around the kitchen when I had finally emerged from my room, and he had been looking far too domesticated. He had put some biscuits on a plate. He had swept the counters down and raised his wand to wash the dishes. He had been rambling stupidly while he worked. He had even laughed at his own jokes.

Lysander had never been good at making tea, but always did it. He never let the kettle boil for long enough - he was too impatient.

I took one sip and choked.

"My Portkey is tomorrow morning - one day is plenty of time to see your brother die and say hello to your parents. Molly's told me at least twice that I've grown so that should just about do it."

I didn't say anything in reply. I couldn't look at him, and just stared into the murky greyness of my tea.

I had been wearing some glorious long gown, in the dream, one that swept the floor when I danced. And he had been in his most glorious dress robes and we had been a vision.

"Your family didn't want you to be alone, so I stayed here for the night. Scorpius had his dad over and Rose has shacked up with Noah, so I couldn't go anywhere else."

I struggled to remember it anymore - but hopefully, if all went well, I can revisit it later, in my sleep. I wanted to see him again, be with him again. Nobody here would remember him just like I would.

I ran my fingers around the edge of the chipped mug. I was at a loss – watching Lysander totter around the room and trying to will the tears from my eyes, just so I would have some outward token of my heartbreak.

"I wouldn't have been able to stay here if he was alive though, obviously."  
It was like Lysander hadn't comprehended the enormity of the situation. Lysander's brother had died. Lorcan had died. His parents were grieving, and so _he_ should be grieving. I supposed Lysander kept thinking that this was all just some horrible occurrence that didn't really affect him, and everything would be all right in the end.

Maybe it was just his bizarre way of coping with it.

"And because you - and I quote – 'love me like a brother'," he said smugly.

And then the last remnants of the dream were swept away, and I was suddenly swamped by the same feeling I had when Lysander visited me in my hospital bed: I no longer had anything in common with the man I shared so much of my childhood with. We had grown apart - not because of fights or disagreements - but because I simply didn't know him anymore. I wasn't sure whether I liked him.

And when I had said I had 'loved him like a brother', I could not remember.  
So it was strange that he kept finding excuses to look after me, when I could barely recognise the boy from Hogwarts.

I had supposed that Lysander would feel the same way about me - that there was nothing to salvage from a relationship that had been born out of a mutual loathing of homework and Professor Mirkwood and closeness that was long gone after years of travelling and no correspondence.

And I was angry with him for that.

I had stayed close friends with Rose and Scorpius, so I guessed I blamed our estrangement on Lysander. It had everything to do with him disappearing off for two years, without word, waiting and waiting for him to write to us, and for him to come home.

And yesterday, I had told him I didn't need him. I had told him that I hadn't wanted him to come home. He just sat opposite me like I hadn't said those things and Lorcan hadn't died. I kept staring at him, willing him to say something that was vaguely appropriate.

"Why are you being so nice to me?"

"Do you want some dinner?" He said, easily avoiding the question as he had always done when he didn't want to talk about something. He avoided eye contact, spoke loudly and authoritatively to show he was in command.

"Your mother brought some food this afternoon. You were…"

"Asleep."  
He smiled again. Silence fell almost instantly - an awkward pause that seemed unending but spoke volumes about our new relationship. He knew I wanted to speak to him, but wouldn't let me. He just kept smiling.

"I just want to know why…"

"You need to eat something, Dom," Lysander said. He stood up at made his way over to the kitchen, busying himself with pots and pans so the noise was loud enough to block my attempts at conversation. "You'll feel better."

"I feel fine."

"But it's your favourite!" He added, his voice bursting with enthusiasm that obviously wasn't genuine. "Your mother made it."

"Can we not just talk?"

A pause. Lysander took a sip of tea, and grimaced.

"I'm sorry," he said. Lysander kept his head low; staring into the sink like it would somehow help him through this. His tone was too aggressive, like the apology was just something that automatically came out of his mouth in response to something he wasn't prepared for. He was headstrong, proud (annoyingly so) and sarcastic, inappropriate at the wrong moments. Apologising went against his nature, and so I revelled in it even if it felt forced.

"What for?"

"Lorcan. Disappearing. You know," he said. I shifted on the sofa, pulling a blanket up across my knees. The cup of tea was left neglected on the coffee table.

"No one knew where you were," I said, as calmly as possible. "Not even your parents."

"They encourage me to be independent."

"You didn't tell me."

"Ah," he exclaimed jovially, and the act of sincerity fell away with it. "You're definitely not trustworthy. Word could have easily got to Lorcan and then my parents and then probably Rose and she would have flown to Peru herself to pick me up and drop me back down here and not hear another word about it." He laughed. The happy sound seemed to echo around the room.

"I can't believe you deemed me a liability," I said.

"Oh please, Lorcan would have found out somehow even if you didn't tell him. He was too bloody clever for his own good."

I gave a sharp intake of breath. "That could be misconstrued as a compliment."

"I was probably saying it wrong."

He had always acted like this. At Hogwarts, the very mention of his brother would make him cold and distant, not engaging until the conversation returned to something in which he could take control and dominate, something where he had an opinion that people would listen to.

When Rose berated him for the state of their relationship - she, of all people, knew the importance of family - they would argue and argue. Scorpius and I would retreat into the background, coupled together by our mutual apathy, and watch as the two most headstrong people we knew battled it out. Merlin knows what would happen if he mentioned house elves.

Apparently, Lysander enjoyed the challenge.

"Why do you hate him so much?"

"'Did', Dom. Past tense. He's dead now."

I paled. Tears threatened to spill down my cheeks, but I refused to cry in front of Lysander. He would start to pity me then and I wouldn't be able to stand that. I was scared of him, for him - why didn't he understand that this was hard for me? Why didn't he empathise? Why wasn't he with his parents, helping them struggle through this? They needed him more than I did. I didn't need him at all.

That was what I had said to him yesterday, and there had been a hint of doubt then - but now, it was different. He was different. He wasn't the same person who left me all those years ago.

Perhaps travelling, or whatever he had actually been doing, had killed some soul within him. Something had happened. The way he spoke, the way he argued - it was harsher, without the smile that usually accompanied the sarcastic comments or the wink to show he was just joking. Perhaps he had simply forgotten about us, or forgotten how to care.

"I'm sorry," he said again. This time was more sincere.

"So you've said."

"I am! That was… that was uncalled for."

"Never usually stopped you before."

"I'm sorry."

Lysander sighed, and moved forward, away from the sink. He made some attempt to pat me on shoulder, to comfort me, but obviously he thought better of it. He returned to his seat opposite me. His face was grave.

"You don't want to try and understand my relationship I had with my brother," he said, and his tone was low and threatening.

"Well then you explain it to me."

"No." He turned away then. "I'll have some food if you're not having any."  
And there it was - the coldness and the distance that had coloured every conversation about his brother. I was no Rose; I couldn't deal with him like this, I didn't have the courage to argue with him. I didn't know what to say.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" I repeated. "Why are you here?"

"I told you."

"I don't believe you."

"All right, fine. You got me. I'm taking advantage of your vulnerability and your lack of Lorcan in order to pursue you romantically. I want you to see that I am capable of looking after you. I came home from Germany especially for this purpose. I want you."

"You're joking."

He smiled. "Of course I am."

But I almost didn't hear him for suddenly my mind was racked with a whole barrage of images: Lysander, kissing me under the mistletoe, making me dinner, or holding my hand. I was traipsing through jungle undergrowth, not waltzing in some fancy ballroom - the world, vast and terrifying and exciting, with a hint of violence. Blood pounding, sweat, wide eyes and adrenaline.

Not polite smiles, no small talk, and nothing controlling of every second of my life.

I shook my head disbelievingly, and the intractable thoughts were knocked out of my mind. They were two completely different things - I couldn't compare them. I couldn't simply swap the surroundings and wish for it to be a completely different situation. Life with Lysander - his unpredictability - would have been complex and strenuous. Life with Lysander now was hard enough.

And I had loved Lorcan.

I saw Lysander's smirk and knew that it could never be true. These corybantic thoughts just made his quiet confidence even more unbearable, and they raced out of my mind as exhaustion and tiredness settled in.

"Don't worry, Dom," Lysander said, from by the sink. "I'm only here to look after you. I wouldn't try to do anything, like that… you know. You disgusted me enough at school, but now you're acting the grieving widow..."

He shook his head and made a face to show his repulsion. Strangely, it made me feel more comfortable around him than when he had been sincere. I almost smiled as the room returned to a more comfortable silence than before - there was no way I was going to get anything out of him now. Whatever had happened between him and Lorcan was over, and I didn't have the energy to find out what it was.

I needed to sleep, but Lysander continued to ramble. I closed my eyes, trying desperately to recall the gold glittering and the ballroom and the candles, and Lorcan's face so close to mine, his breath on my cheek.

"There was this fog there, right," Lysander continued, mumbling through biscuit, "in Peru. It just made you fall asleep, right at the top of this mountain, and there was just a huge pile of people sleeping. Weird. I thought that had happened to you today."

"I was tired," I replied. He was just making conversation now, looking out of the window at the darkening sky. He didn't want to apologise anymore, he didn't want to talk about his brother and what it all meant.

"And seeing as you've been up for a grand total of four hours, would you like to go back to bed?"

My legs were weak as I walked across the living room towards the bedroom door. I opened it, then turned to say goodnight. He nodded in reply.

* * *

I watched the sun rise again, and listened to the birds.

He was gone by the time I had got up, left without a note, without anything.  
Lysander had stayed because I had been the best of a bad lot - the easy way out. I had been too distracted by Lorcan's death to pester him constantly about travelling, or berate him about his cavalier attitude. He needed a place to stay and there I was.

Not because he was sorry, not because he cared.

The dream ended with us dancing to someone playing the violin and Lorcan kissing me. It was a memory, not a dream; at least I thought it was. The complex mystery of those things that were conscious memory and those things that nestled somewhere in my unconscious was not something that should be fathomed so early in the morning, when the sun was rising and the birds were singing.

I needed sleep.


End file.
